The Hardest Part of Ending
by ramblingonandon
Summary: A one-shot speculative Fic, set at the end of Season 2 and quite heavily Aramis centric. It drew from the, 'what if Aramis didn't join the war' and went from there. Since I haven't seen the next season this is basically my wishful thinking.
**A/N: This little story is inspired by two things. The song 'Waiting for the End' by Linkin Park, its title is borrowed from the line in the song, "Picking up the pieces now where to begin; the hardest part of ending is starting again," **

**And a season 3 picture of Aramis that is floating on the web, [SPOILER ahead!] It showed a misty scene with a windswept Aramis, alone and leaning against a pillar as he loaded a pistol, while not in his Musketeer uniform but a brown cloak kind of thing around his shoulders. [The picture is hauntingly beautiful]**

 **I'm dreading the WHAT IF Aramis did not join them in war and I'm pretty sure the original story wouldn't deviate to the thread I'm picking in this story but this is just my brain trying to come up with bridges from here to there.**

 **Oh and I sort of smudged up Aramis' history since the show didn't tell us much and I can't help it.**

 **The italics are dialogues borrowed from the show used as memory.**

 **Disclaimer:** **I own nothing recognizable here, not making any money either.**

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" _ **We all search for truth in different ways," – Aramis [The Musketeers – A Rebellious Woman]**_

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He had walked away.

He had walked away from them.

…" _Do you have a family?"_

" _Not unless you count the Musketeers,"…_

He had walked away from his family.

He tried hard not to think about that. Forced himself to focus on the uneven path he had set his poor horse on. There were roads, he knew but he had thought he would enjoy the solitude of the forest. Aramis snorted at the ridiculous idea this had turned out.

He was atop his horse, devoid of the coat and the weapons belt and the sash, everything that made up his uniform that had been his second skin for more than half a decade. He had set aside his hat as well; its weight had left him unbalanced without the weight of his pauldron on his shoulder.

If he closed his eyes he could imagine d'Artagnan riding beside him, eager to learn and exasperated at the teasing. On his other side would be Porthos, thumping him on the back and winking at Aramis from around the younger man between them. Then Athos would turn around from slightly up ahead of them, eyes alight with humour and an indulgent quirk of a brow, ordering them in that flat tone to stop harassing their youngest.

…" _All for one,"_

 _And one for all,"…_

Inseparables.

Separated.

Aramis opened his eyes to find them wet, eyelashes clinging together thickly. He blinked hastily to clear his vision and quickly rubbed away the moisture lest it mark his façade. Somewhere a bird took flight, the flap of its wings cut through the incessant chirping of the winged wildlife about him and Aramis found his hand reflexively reaching for his pistol.

His fingers curled on empty space.

…" _Leave the birds alone,"…_

Aramis shivered.

The daylight had receded and it had taken the warmth with it.

Alone, cold, bereft in a forest.

That was him, Aramis the Master of Bad Decisions.

…" _So are you going to marry the lovely widow – I mean Alice?"_

" _If I did tha' who'll look after you eh?"…_

His hands tightened around the reins of his horse and Aramis pulled in a sharp breath. He let it out slowly, steadying his teetering control with it. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop, to jerk the reins and turn the horse around and ride back, hard and fast, ride back to the brothers he had left behind. His hold on the strip of leather in his grip was tight enough for his blunt nails to leave half-moons on his skin; his gloves were the part of his uniform, the uniform he no longer had the right to.

By the time he had managed to ease the nearly cramping clenching of his fists, Aramis was surprised to find that his horse had taken to the road. He tried not to be fazed by his own lack of attention; after all he wasn't a Musketeer any more so he had no need for vigilance.

It still didn't stop him from checking the perimeter of the Inn he spotted; " _Les Routes Perdues"_ said the board over the door. He scanned the people loitering about at its entrance, checked the condition of the stables and marked the possible exits from the small establishment. He chose to ignore how this habit of observation had become a part of his nature and dismounting from the horse handed its reins to the stable-hand.

It had been ages since he had stopped at this Inn, but if there was ever a place he wanted to visit one last time it was this. This was where he had been offered the commission to the Musketeers regiment. The Inn was more accessible now, far out of the forest instead of being on the edge of it. Aramis noted how the tiny village around the establishment had grown over the years.

Soon he found himself sitting in one of the rooms above the tap room. There was a bed on which he sat and next to the wall was a chair, the entire area was no bigger than a cupboard but it seemed to expand around him. There was no Athos with his ankles crossed over the edge of the bed as he tipped back in the chair with a bottle of wine, there were no Porthos and d'Artagnan playing cards on the scant floor space where the younger man griped and the older grinned.

It was too big, too much and Aramis bolted.

The tap room was full of chatter, the peasants were excited about some news from the capital but Aramis wasn't interested. He chose the table in the farthest corner, away from the hearth and tucked by the only window on the ground floor. A lone candle was lit in the centre of his table and by its light he drank the first cup of his wine.

Aramis was refilling his cup when a man took the seat across him.

His eyes widened slightly before the corner of his lip curled up. A firmness crept up his spine and a pull in his shoulders even as he signaled for the barmaid for another cup. Aramis sat straighter, his posture sharper; it was a reaction borne of years of experience between him and the man who now sat opposite.

"Jean," he nodded.

"Rene," the man observed him.

And he was thrown back onto a battlefield in the dreary morning where the stench of death was thicker than the mud under his boots – that was where their paths had crossed the first time; when he had been just shy of twenty years old with already a year of experience in the infantry under his belt.

Jean Armand Treville had observed him with this same intensity then.

"You are far from the garrison sir," his tone one part respectful one part challenge, just as it had always been between them.

"I've been looking for you lad," there was a softness there that Aramis did not wish to dwell upon.

He filled the man's cup with wine and regarded him with a tilt of his head. The older man picked up the cup in silent salute and drained it in one go, setting it back with a clink. Aramis refilled it without a word, theirs was a history older than the Musketeers regiment and that meant he knew his former captain. Treville was shaken; it was in the press of his finger tips around the cup and in the twitch of his jaw behind his beard.

"We are at war," Treville's words were quiet.

The din of cannons, the screams of men, blades slick with blood and the smooth stock of the musket in his hand pressed unbidden in his mind. Red earth, red snow, red water in the bowl as he pulled a musket ball out of a comrade in arms – Aramis forced his heart to slow down as the words settled like lead in his bones.

"And you were looking for me?"

Blue eyes flashed at him.

"You want me to say it then?"

Aramis drained his own cup as an answer.

"You picked a hell of a time to fulfill your parents' wishes," Treville placed his arms on the table and shook his head.

Aramis raised a brow and the man before him grit his teeth.

"Fine, I know you made a vow and I know why," Treville said, his voice shaking with the strain to keep it low, "I know what you did and why you are doing this but we are at war, you cannot turn your back on this."

A part of him itched to grasp the hilt of a rapier, to feel the weight of a musket at his back and its pull in the strap at his shoulder. But he had made a vow.

"Go back to your regiment Captain, they need you,"

"I'm not the Captain anymore," Treville's voice rang hollow; "I'm the Minister of War."

He smiled despite everything, found himself grinning like he hadn't in what felt like a life time.

"Congratulations then Minister," Aramis raised his cup and shook his head; "I bet Athos already hates his promotion."

"I don't particularly enjoy mine either,"

"It's not a competition sir,"

"It would be a sad state of affairs if it was," amusement sparked in Treville's eyes though his smile was cheerless as he shook his head, "to win a competition by being the most miserable."

"We're all miserable sir," Aramis shrugged, "a competition would make it bearable,"

"They rode out today," Treville looked him in the eye, "they rode out to get to you."

They were coming to collect him, they were coming after him and then going off to war, his brothers were coming for him so that he could join them at the front lines. He pulled in a sharp breath then another, his throat suddenly too dry wouldn't let the air pass and Aramis coughed harshly.

Grasping the edge of the table he let his head fall forward until his chin hit his chest and he wheezed to find his breath a rhythm again. It took too long for the pounding of blood in his ears to recede and his vision to sharpen. Aramis stared at his knuckles that had gone white in their grip on the edge of the table.

Go back to your brothers his heart screamed.

"I cannot join them," he said.

Go back to your brothers his heart said.

"I made a vow and I have to keep it,"

Go back to your brothers his heart whispered – desperate.

"I have left that life behind," Aramis looked up at Treville, "I must atone for my sins,"

The older man crossed his arms before his chest and leaned back from the table. The blue eyes pinned him with a glare that had been the bread and butter of their years together and Aramis felt a lump rise to his throat at the thought of how he would miss it.

"Are you telling me that you don't care to watch your brothers' back when they go to war?"

"I am watching their backs by not being anywhere near them," Aramis snapped at him, "as long as my name is spoken with theirs it casts them in danger. You know Jean, you were there. My indiscretion should it ever come to light could destroy everything I love. And I cannot allow that."

"So you're running away,"

It took every ounce of his will power to not grind his teeth. There were few people whose opinion actually mattered to him despite his claim to care for the view of the public, Treville was one of those people.

"I'm disappearing," Aramis said and found that voicing it hurt worst than he had expected, "Aramis the King's Musketeer would be nothing more than a footnote in their lives. Their heroics and honour will overshadow any stain I had cast on their lives and on their loyalty to the crown."

"And punishing yourself has nothing to do with this?" Treville quirked a brow.

"Does it matter?"

Because he could not even dip a toe in the ocean of grief that was hammering against his control and eroding it chip by chip. He could not touch on the raw wound where he had cut out his heart and left it behind in the form of all the people he had come to love.

"They go to war," Treville reminded him.

"And I'm a worst danger to them than that," he said.

But his hands still shook and he clutched the cup of his wine for the want of something to do. They were going to war; his brothers were likely riding out to their deaths and he couldn't follow them, couldn't keep an eye on them. A stray musket ball, a sneaky blade or the errant edge of the pulsing force of a cannon ball, there were so many things that could claim a precious life – Aramis raised trembling fingers to pinch the inner corners of his eyes – they were going to war.

"What if you could watch their backs with them being none the wiser?" Treville leaned forward again, crossed arms coming to rest on the table top, "you could disappear and still be able to watch over them like I know you want to."

"I made a –"

"I know damnit!" his hands were fists pressed against the table, the glow of the candle glinted in his eyes, "I know you made a vow and that is precisely why I need you for this."

Aramis regarded his former captain and old friend with silence, waiting for him to collect his wits. He had a vague idea where this was going but he could not understand how his promise played a part in this.

"You need me to be your spy across border," he said.

It wasn't a novel idea, not in terms of war strategy neither for him. His Spanish ancestry written on his face had been often employed for the use of deception.

"That and more," Treville ground out, "I have secured the loyalty of a handful of people who would work from the shadows. In the battlefield and on assignments between them, I need you to command them –"

"No, no," Aramis shook his head, "no, not after –"

–Savoy went unspoken but hung in the air like a dagger between them; dangling, waiting, threatening to sever what had taken years to weave between them. Aramis dared not breathe for the fear it would drop and cleave through their strained bond. A soft crack under his palm and wine trickled onto the tabletop. He watched the thin red trail slither to the edge of the table and disappear beyond, its splash lost in the din of the tap room.

To war, to war, to war, thumped his heart.

He withdrew his hand from the earthen cup and left it in two pieces on the table.

"I –"

"I need a man of conscience," Treville cut him off, "a man who knows guilt. The people I will send in can be ruthless and I need someone to keep them in line, one who can take a life but has the strength to spare it as well. Your orders will come far and few in between so I need someone I can trust to make the right decision chain of command be damned."

Sharp challenge flashed in the former captain's eyes, "Or are you not the same man who harboured an assassin in order to find truth for your fallen friends?" he asked.

Aramis clenched his jaw shut and met Treville glare for glare. How dare he bring that up? How dare he bring that up now of all the times? His need to find justice for his fallen comrades despite the consequences had put him at odds with everything he had believed in.

…" _Before you go down this road ask yourself one question. If it is true – what then?"…_

But Aramis had never cared about 'what then', only for the loyalty he held in his heart for his brothers. He hated the smug upturn at the corner of the older man's lips. Treville knew he had brought him to the point he had wanted him standing at all along, had led Aramis right up to the deep well of loyalty for his brothers he carried in his heart.

The former captain of the Musketeers fished out an envelope from under his traveling cloak and slid it across the table. Aramis didn't spare it a glance and pointedly took a mouthful of his wine direct from the bottle.

"Should you choose to do this I must remind you that in case of your capture the crown has nothing to do with you," Treville went on, "in fact as far anyone is concerned you're in the monastery, this group you lead does not exist."

Aramis still steered clear of the envelope and drank his wine instead, he could see the wheels turning in Treville's mind. The man would sweeten the deal, he would offer him what he knew Aramis wanted and deep down Aramis knew he would be tempted if not convinced. He had known Jean Armand Treville for a long time; most respected the man for his bluntness as did he. But Aramis also respected him for his cunning, because there were not many who could commandeer both and despite his honesty Treville was as cunning as they came, he had faced off against Cardinal Richelieu for years after all.

"You could be the part of every battle your brothers march to, you could turn the tide as long as you maintain you cover," Treville told him; "and the information you gather could save lives Aramis. You could make sure that the supply lines to your brothers are relatively safe; keep an eye on them without them knowing."

Aramis smirked, here was the man who had convinced his old captain to shift Aramis to Treville's troops while they were still camped out during the siege and here was the captain who had sat in this Inn and sold Aramis the idea of being a Musketeer.

"Always knew you'd do well in the court Jean," he said.

"Needs must," Treville shrugged.

Aramis picked up the envelope between two fingers and flicked it over to read the seal, not surprised to find it a simple spiral embedded in wax, not linking the correspondence with anyone of importance yet unique. He glanced back to find the blue eyes studying him and wondered how after all the changes in his life nothing had changed at all.

Here he was again, a weapon in Treville's belt.

But it was the concern tucked far into the corner of those eyes, a desire and fear for his well being that had always been the reason Aramis had let himself be a weapon in the hands of this man. Treville cared, it wasn't a priority for the man but he did give a damn about the men under his charge, and that was better than any of the other commanding officers Aramis had worked for.

That was why Aramis knew Athos would make a good Captain, he would instill loyalty and respect and men would follow him because they'd want to and his friend would suffer all the more for it. Athos cared a lot more than Treville did and now he was to be a Captain on battlegrounds.

To war, to war, to war, rang in his ears.

It would destroy Athos.

And then there was Porthos, kind, brave, protective Porthos who would readily lay down his life in order to save a brother; the war would provide him with too many chances for it.

And d'Artagnan in his youth and recklessness, too brave and too eager to prove his worth, not seeing that he was worth it all already.

"They can't know you are there," Treville said, "It may lead them to take unnecessary risks if they'll know. Let them make their choices and decisions while you nudge the events from the shadows."

"You said they're coming to collect me from Douai,"

"If you ride out with them, burn the letter," Treville said.

He hated how sure the Minister was of his return to arms, hated how despite it all he wanted to return to arms too. But his vow, his penance sat heavy in his chest and he took to his feet without a word. Aramis tucked the letter in his belt and presented Treville with an exaggerated bow, his back stooped but not his head –never his head – he did not bow down to men.

Let the former Captain pay for the wine and damages Aramis decided, the man owed him that. He mounted his horse, feeling bad for the lack of rest he had afforded the animal as he guided it back to the road. He rode on into the night and mused that if he listened hard enough he could hear the clatter of his brothers' horses chasing at his heels.

The motion of the horse under him, the hard edges of the saddle and the turmoil in his mind were the constants for days. He had always been able to find balance, between his lessons in Latin and sword practice when he was younger, between the thrill of a battle and the recollection of what he was fighting for as a soldier, but now he floundered.

Penance and clemency.

Punishment and mercy.

As long as he was in view of the world he knew he would condemn to death all those he loved. His name was their death sentence waiting to see the light of the day. His mistake –

…" _If Rochefort's advances towards the Queen are treason, what does it make yours?"_

" _Love,"…_

– not a mistake; not the time they shared and the life they'd made. His son was not a mistake.

The letter at his side was a burning presence by the time his sore eyes settled on the destination he had come seeking. And it was hours later, at the end of the night when the large doors of the monastery were thrown open and the Musketeers rode into the yard.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan was moving before he had finished dismounting.

The younger man covered the distance between them in impatient long strides and grabbed Aramis in an embrace. It felt too good, too warm and Aramis hugged him back with fervor. This could be his last chance to do so.

"Missed us already eh?" Porthos thumped him on the shoulder.

And Aramis all too eagerly grabbed his arm and pulled him close, it felt like he hadn't seen them in years. The air he breathed was sweeter, the ground he stood on more solid all of a sudden.

"Athos here is the Captain now," Porthos grinned.

"Can't say I'm surprised," Aramis laid a hand on Athos' shoulder.

Already there was a tense rigidness in the muscle under his hand but Aramis found the happiness to see him shining in his brother's eyes. He shifted his grip to the back of Athos' neck and gave it a squeeze.

"You'll do good," he said.

"I should hope so," Athos shrugged.

"I have faith in you," Aramis told him honestly and pulled him in an embrace.

He would have been honoured to follow his brother's command, it would have been a privilege; the thought made him hold his friend just a bit more tightly before he let go.

"Constance and I got married," d'Artagnan burst out like he had been only waiting for a chance to announce it.

Married – well damn.

"That was not the face I was expecting for this news,"

"No, I'm happy, truly. Congratulations!" Aramis pulled him in an embrace again, "I wish I had been there,"

And that was the truth from the bottom of his heart.

"That is why we are here," Athos said.

"We ride out to war Aramis, we have come to take you," Porthos said.

Aramis took a step back, away from the three of them; his eyes scanning their faces in the dim light of predawn. Mind working to etch the open, hopeful features into his memory and he tried to seal it in his heart the bond between them that had drawn them here after him. He could not go with them, that much was obvious to him – but d'Artagnan was married now, Athos was the Captain and Porthos, his best friend – but his vow.

"I can't," he said.

"What?"

"I can't come with you,"

"In case y' weren't listening we're at war," Porthos stepped closer to him, "we're riding out to battle."

There was confusion in those dark eyes boring into him and Aramis' heart clenched in his chest as he forced himself to gaze back in the depths.

"And my place is not there," he said.

"Your place is with your brothers," Athos said.

"I can't,"

He was not surprised when large hands caught the front of his shirt and dragged him forwards. The hurt in Porthos' gaze took his breath away far more effectively than the teeth chattering shake that followed.

"Why?"

He could hear the heartbreak echoing in the rage of his friend. Aramis couldn't have that, he couldn't send him out with grief, but rage – yes, that would help keep him alive.

"I don't think I can explain anymore than I already did," he said.

Porthos drew back and punched him hard across the face. Aramis staggered back as his friend turned on his heels and marched back to his horse. The big man swung into his saddle and turned his horse around.

Athos looked from him to Aramis before he grabbed d'Artagnan's arm and pulled him after.

"No wait - but Athos! We have to get Aramis –" the disheartened crack in the young man's voice broke something in Aramis.

They had been so sure he would simply follow them out, so naïve in the belief that he could do that.

Porthos only waited until the others had mounted their horses and not a second more. With a dig of his heels in the flanks of his horse his best friend rode out of the monastery's door; Athos and d'Artagnan a step behind him. None of them spared a glance back and Aramis was grateful for that, they wouldn't have been able to miss the wet trails on his face if they had.

Aramis took out the letter Treville had given him and broke the seal. It told him to meet the owner of 'Les Routes Perdues' and ask for the message left for one Rene de l'Ombre.

Somewhere Aramis knew Marsac would be grinning at him, at how through all the winding trails of his life he was now on the same path as him, the path of shadows, a soldier left with no crown at his side. Aramis wiped at his split lip with the back of his hand and peered at the receding figures, they were no more than dots on the horizon where a red dawn was breaking.

Maybe this was his punishment, to be close to his brothers like a shadow and yet too far; to watch their backs or perish trying and yet take their displeasure for him to his grave. As he stood in the empty yard Aramis realized that walking away from them was the hardest thing he did, but letting them go was infinitely worst.

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 _ **"One day you will ask me which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life." – Khalil Gibran**_

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 **END**


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